Summoning your broomstick was only the beginning.
These old brooms had seen better days, and coaxing them to obey was no easy feat. Some would answer the call, only to sputter, drop midair, or shed a few twigs as they rolled across the grass.
Once everyone managed to grip their handles, Madam Hooch resumed her careful instructions. She corrected postures, highlighted key safety points, and offered a few subtle tricks—demonstrating how to mount without slipping off.
"Alright..." She was visibly anxious now, a sheen of sweat on her brow. "When I blow my whistle, mount your brooms, kick off with both legs, and you'll be airborne."
"Don't panic! This is just a flying lesson, not a race. There's nothing to compete over—no pressure at all... Just remember: hold on tight to your broomsticks!"
"To go up, pull back on the handle. To descend, lean forward and press down—the broom will carry you safely to the ground. Wait for my whistle... and please, don't be nervous!"
She clamped the whistle between her teeth and, with utmost caution, swung her leg over her own broom.
The students followed suit, straddling their brooms.
At the sound of the whistle—tweet!—the whole class shot skyward together, and, to everyone's relief, nothing went wrong.
Madam Hooch sounded far more cheerful now. "Excellent! Now try landing—take your time, there's no rush!"
Once everyone touched down, she began demonstrating how to hover and turn in midair.
These were advanced moves; for most students, just staying aloft was challenge enough. Mastery would take time.
But then Wyzett executed a perfect S-shaped glide, weaving smoothly through the air. Michael gawked. "Wyzett, how do you know how to do that? Madam Hooch hasn't even taught us yet!"
Wyzett just shook his head, just as baffled. Why did flying feel as natural as breathing to him?
Then it clicked—he was an Obscurial. When he first arrived in this world, he'd drifted through the air in his Obscurus form. That innate ability to float and soar had made flying second nature.
If he weren't worried about giving Madam Hooch a heart attack, he might have tried some truly daring stunts.
Michael groaned. "How come you're so good? I was here first, and I was the first to touch a broom..."
Chris teased, "Yeah, you touched it first—and then dropped it the moment Madam Hooch shouted at you."
Terry chimed in, "Exactly! You abandoned your broom, so no wonder you're struggling now."
Michael huffed, "These brooms are ancient, okay? Look, they're dropping twigs while we fly! I was just being careful!"
"Of course, safety first," Anthony called down from above, his tone dripping with mockery. "Maybe you should take over teaching the class, Michael."
"You're not much better!" Michael shot back. "You go on about your Auror cousin, but look at you on a broom!"
He hunched over his handle, legs clamped tight, wobbling along and pulling faces. "This is how you ride a broom, right? Super safe?"
"I don't look like that!" Anthony protested, red-faced. "Guys, do I really look like that?"
A few giggles were his only answer.
Wyzett just shook his head. "Nothing wrong with being safe."
"See!" Anthony straightened up, emboldened by Wyzett's support.
Michael just laughed. "That's because Wyzett's too nice. Didn't you hear Chris and Terry laughing?"
"Just you wait!" Anthony snapped, his pride stung. He gritted his teeth and shot upward, aiming straight for Michael.
Michael kept laughing, not the least bit worried about a collision.
But Anthony had lost all sense—he barreled into Michael head-on. Both brooms shrieked in protest.
Like two magnets repelling, they bounced apart, spinning in opposite directions.
"You two!" Madam Hooch immediately blew her whistle. "Everyone! Down! Now! Back to the ground!"
She dived at breakneck speed, reaching the ground before Michael. Abandoning her broom, she lunged forward and managed to catch him—both unharmed.
"Look up!"
Screams erupted as the students glanced skyward. Anthony's broom was belching thick green smoke, carrying him higher and higher—straight toward the castle.
"How am I supposed to keep this job?" Madam Hooch groaned in despair, leaping back onto her broom.
But she was too far away. It looked like another student was about to end up in the hospital wing—and Madam Pomfrey would have plenty to say about it.
Just then, something flashed in her peripheral vision. "How is he that fast?"
Wyzett had shot upward, leaving only a blur in his wake.
Wind roared in his ears as he surged after Anthony, his robes billowing and snapping like thunder.
His broom was old and groaning under the strain, but Wyzett pushed it to its limits. There was no time to slow down.
Just as Anthony was about to crash into a castle window, Wyzett raised his wand. "Accio robes!"
A sudden force yanked Anthony's robes, pulling him back from disaster. The broom beneath him gave a final, pitiful crack and snapped in two.
Anthony plummeted, shrieking, hands snatching desperately at the air.
But Wyzett was already streaking downward, arrow-straight, wand outstretched. He fired another Summoning Charm.
Anthony's fall slowed, but his robes tore with a sickening rip—they couldn't take another spell.
Wyzett wasn't surprised. He'd anticipated this and had a backup plan ready.
He hadn't wasted his first week at Hogwarts. In between classes and exploring the endless mazes of the castle, he'd been practicing and refining his knowledge, gathering enough Ancient Magic to enhance his spells.
He'd been working on the Summoning Charm, determined to take it further—enough to pull even a falling student from the sky.
Many students covered their eyes, imagining a grisly scene—Anthony's head split open, blood everywhere.
"Accio Anthony!" Wyzett called, channeling Ancient Magic into his wand. It blazed with brilliant silver-blue light...
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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